


In The Act

by ellenmellenn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M, Thief Dean, Thief Sam, Writer Castiel, in the spirit of, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellenmellenn/pseuds/ellenmellenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrote this for pirate!destiel day but my use of the word "pirate" is pretty broad here. Let's just say it's keeping in the spirit of pirating and all things delightfully illegal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Act

Cas doesn’t say much. He tends to keep his thoughts to himself, structures them in his writing, and voices them only when directly asked. It’s one of his favorite things about New York: no one ever asks him to. The Pentacle in East Village is like a microcosm of the whole city; Cas can sit at one of the stools by the pool tables and sip whiskey all night, watching and listening, and no one gives him any grief. Many of the people in the bar are regulars, but it’s a popular enough place that there’s always something interesting to see or overhear.  The website he writes for gets so many short stories out of this bar Cas should start counting the drinks as a tax exemption.

He’s sitting back and quietly people-watching when a man about his age walks in. He fits the general crowd; leather jacket, combat boots, and a general air of I Don’t Give A Fuck. He walks to the bar and orders a drink, then sits back and melts quietly into the woodwork. If he weren’t so attractive, Cas probably would’ve forgotten him immediately. But this man could quite possibly be the most attractive person Castiel has ever seen. It’s not even the whiskey talking. The pool hall lights snag in the deliberate spikes of his hair, and even from across the room Cas can see the freckles spotting his nose. He leans relaxed against the far wall of the bar, sipping lightly at his glass. Cas would be content to watch him all night, maybe even ask to buy him his second drink, but he has a deadline, and beyond the sharp tick in the back of his mind, this stranger seems to have no interest in creating a story for Cas to draw from.

At the tables beside him, an absurdly tall man has been laughing with a group of college kids for the past ten minutes. The empty glasses and beer bottles around them speak of a good time, and the tall guy gets a game going. He emits the kind of good humor and openness that draws a small crowd, and before the first turns are through the party at the pool tables has doubled in size. A number of the patrons at the bar and in the back turn to watch the small display, Cas among them. He looks to see if Freckles is enjoying the show as much as everyone else, and is shocked to find he isn’t there. It takes Cas a moment to locate him, the bar is dark and the crowd tonight is thick, but when he does, the mood at the bar flips like a switch. Freckles moves deftly through the crowd, carrying his still-full glass in one hand, the other snatching every lose item on every table he passes without a hitch. The pockets of his coat give nothing away, thick leather hiding any weight and shape. His shoulders are loose and his posture so malleable that a few people even shoulder him out of the way without noticing, and Cas watches amazed as the man takes advantage of the closeness to reach into a pocket or an open purse.

Freckles has made it halfway to the bathrooms, an inconspicuous path and destination, when he looks up and catches Cas’s unwavering eye. Both men freeze, the music from the bar’s ancient speakers turning to white noise in Cas’s ears. He doesn’t know what to do, but now he’s undoubtedly involved in what he can only classify as a robbery. Freckles doesn’t seem to know what to do either, waiting for Castiel to make a move, body going rigid for the first time since he stepped into the bar. Cas dumbly notes that his eyes are extremely green. A couple shoulder past him, shoving him further in Cas’s direction, and it seems to jerk him out of the moment. Without dropping Cas’s eye, he makes a beeline to the tall man at the pool tables, still laughing and commanding the room in what Cas now recognizes as an incredible distraction. He doesn’t say a word. Instead he steps on the back of the tall man’s heel, nudges his back with an elbow and continues to the wall. Leaning against it, under the green and pink neon lights, Freckles looks straight at Cas. There’s a challenge in his gaze, an open threat, but Cas can’t find it in him to be afraid or even disapproving. He can’t seem to do anything at all but keep staring. The line between them is electric, crackling in Cas’s ears and pounding in his blood. He can feel the air change as Freckles tries to figure him out and it feels oddly like they’re playing chicken, waiting for the other to make a move; make a scene or turn away.

Freckles cracks first. He shoots back his drink, closing his eyes and severing the line of static between them. He kicks off the wall, leaving the empty glass in a nook by the pool sticks, and heads straight for the door. Cas doesn’t realize he’s following him until he hears the bell above the bar’s front door as he steps outside. Freckles turns at the sound and stops short, gritting his teeth and all of sudden Cas is being pulled into the small alley beside the bar. His head cracks against the brick when Freckles shoves him against the wall, knife at his throat.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t know,” Cas replies, honestly.

“Bullshit,” Freckles says, pressing the knife closer. “You a cop?”

“What? No, I’m a writer.”

“So what, you think you’re gonna bust a pickpocket and they’ll promote you, Woodward?”

“I’m not a journalist,” Cas spits, and the amount of annoyance in his voice is probably not a good call, but fuck, he hates being mistaken for a journalist and it happens _all the time_. “I write fiction. Sometimes non, and very occasionally a poem, but usually fiction.”

Freckles doesn’t seem to know what to make of this.

“Then why the fuck are you following me?”

“I don’t know,” Cas repeats. “I just, felt like it?”

“Dude, you have a messed up sense of what’s a good idea.”

“Says the man who just stole hundreds of dollars from a local bar.”

“Touché,” Freckles admits, and honors him with a real grin. “And at a bar like this I better be pulling thousands.”

The knife is still at Cas’s throat but it’s not really a concern. He tilts his head as his curiosity gets the better of him.

“What made you turn to thieving?”

“Nine-to-five’s aren’t really my style.”

Reasonable enough. The idea of a nine-to-five makes Cas cringe too.

“Is this your only source of income then?”

“This and my good looks,” he winks.

“No wonder you turned to thieving.” Freckles looks mildly insulted until the corner of Cas’s mouth turns up. He snorts when he laughs.

“Are bars your usual choice of location?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions. You tryin’ to buy time or something?” Freckles asks, eyeing both ends of the alley and shifting back into a fight-or-flight stance. At some point in this conversation, Cas realizes, they both relaxed.

“No, I didn’t call the police, and I don’t think anyone else in the bar noticed what you two were doing.”

Freckles eyes fly back to his at that and for the first time the knife becomes an actual threat. Fear sits on Cas’s skin like rain.

“What do you mean, ‘you two’?”

“The tall man playing pool. He’s with you, right? The game and the boisterousness, that was your cover.” It’s hard to tell in the dark alley, but Cas is sure Freckles goes slightly pale. And for the same fucked up reason that pulled him out the door and into this mess, that doesn’t sit well with Cas.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. I have no interest in seeing you two arrested.”

“And why should I trust you?” Freckles’ takes a half-step closer. They’re almost chest to chest now, less than inches between them. He’s can’t be more than 30 but there are worry lines at the corners of his eyes.

“I don’t expect you to.”

The same electricity that held them in the bar is back, stronger now that it’s confined to the tight space between them. Cas knows he could push the knife away now if he wanted to, but neither of them moves.

“Dean!” comes a sharp hiss from the sidewalk, and Freckles, _Dean_ , jumps back, shoving Cas hard against the wall with his free hand.

“What’s going on?” The tall man seems panicked and before Dean can say anything Cas waves him off.

“It’s fine, I’m not going to report either of you.” Tall Guy looks at Dean full of questions but Dean just shrugs and steps back into Cas’s space.

“It’s okay, Sammy, he’s cool.”

Sammy’s bitchface is the most impressive Cas has seen. Even if none of the rest of this makes it into a story, that absolutely will.

“Thank you, Dean, that explains so much. I’m glad the guy you were holding at knifepoint is ‘cool’.”

“Shut up, Samantha.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Dean turns back to Cas, all wide grin and showmanship.

“You’ve probably picked up on this by now, you seem to pick up on an awful lot, but I’m Dean. That’s Sam.”

“Castiel,” he replies, taking Dean’s hand. “But Cas is fine.” Dean doesn’t drop his hand.

“Well Cas, we should probably get goin’, before the cops you didn’t call turn up anyway.”

“Where are you going?” Cas asks and Dean hesitates before answering,

“Days Inn. In Poughkeepsie.”

_“Dean!?”_ Sam whispers, sharp as the knife. “What the fuck, man!”

Dean doesn’t look away from Cas. “You comin’?”

Cas only pauses a moment before tilting his chin back and matching Dean’s grin.

“Of course.”


End file.
